It's safe to say that in under 24 hours, I found myself relocated and dumped in the middle of nowhere, working on a project that I cared little about. After meeting some fellow computer technicians, I lapsed into silence and busily typed away on the computer, learning some new procedures and information about the database. The only thing that distracted me was a small application permanently assigned to the right corner of the screen, constantly monitoring the Tesseract's levels. Three blue bars with words beneath them clearly meant for a thermonuclear astrophysicist kept my attention, and I watched as the bars fell and rose sporadically.

I learned that for the most part, I would be working three four hour shifts during the day. After my time was up, another technician would take my place. Maria warned me during those four hours when I wasn't working, I was expected to be in my assigned unit, either sleeping or eating. Wandering around the complex wasn't something I was allowed to do-or that I wanted to-mostly because the complex was so huge that I'd surely get lost. I've never been good with directions. I would never be able to make it as a field agent because I'd probably send everyone towards a bomb by mistake.

When I arrived to my new home, it was two in the morning. My first official day began at 0700, and if I was late, I would have Fury to deal with.

The unit was nothing impressive, like Maria promised-it was a 4x4 square, gray box. A small metal desk, was pressed against the front wall, which had a small window and pull down shades. To the right of the desk was a small wooden dresser. To my left was a plain bed, built for one, with cream colored sheets. Resting at the foot of the bed was my mint-green comforter, which made me smile. At least there's something familiar. Last but not least, the mother load: a fridge, stocked with frozen dinners, sandwiches, water and snacks.

Although the room was small, it did have a very small bathroom adjacent to it, with nothing more than a plain toilet, a sink, and shower.

Sliding the dresser drawers open, I saw all of my clothes, with the exception of my nice things. I supposed that female agents infiltrated my house.

My laptop, treasure chest, and touchscreen computer beckoned me to use them, but I first had to shower. The temperature in here was comfortable, but I'm always warm.

"Don't worry," I said aloud, talking to my electronics as I peeled off my uniform. "I'll be back soon." My showers had been no more than 10 minutes since chopping off my hair three years ago into a pixie cut-which Katie vehemently protested because it made me look like a lesbian (I'm not)-but it made my life easier. My natural hair color was a dark blonde, but I dyed it a dark brown a while ago.

"Shit," I murmured, wrapping myself in a towel. "Where's my hair dye?"


Once I had changed into clothes that allowed my skin to breathe, I sat down in front of my computer and opened up my emails. The subject line made me cringe with guilt. Again.

"Where the hell are you," I murmured to myself, smiling sadly as I opened the email. I sighed sadly as I read Katie's email with regret: Rupert had been so adamant, she wrote, to see me, that he insisted they drive to my house and surprise me. Imagine their surprise when they discovered that my house was being put up for sale, and I was nowhere to be found. The sign was merely a ruse, but they would never know that.

"What if she called Mom and Dad?" I moaned. They're just as bad as Katie. If Katie doesn't call me during the weekends to complain, my parents do. They threaten to drive from Chicago to see me themselves if I won't visit them.

"Sorry, Katie," I sighed, glancing at the picture of Megan sitting on my desk. Katie sent it to me after her first ballet recital. Megan was a beautiful child, with curly golden locks and wide, blue eyes she inherits from the Pedagia side of the family, and a hunger for knowledge. She began her, "why?" phase at the age of 4 and haven't stopped since. Katie predicts that she'll become a scientist when she's grown. In the photo, Megan was on stage with her fellow dancers, perfectly poised in a pirouette position, wearing a fluffy pink tutu. I smiled ruefully at the photo to set it to the side, and then opened an email, prepared to make up some bullshit response.

A sharp rap at the door made me sigh loudly and I stood up with a grunt. When I opened the door, I found myself staring at a girl who had to be barely eighteen, wearing a white tank top and Tweety Bird pajama bottoms, her blond hair pulled into pigtails, and smiling animatedly at me. Her hazel eyes lit up with excitement when I looked at her face.

But it's 2:20 a.m. How the heck are you smiling?

"Can I help you?" I asked her, keeping my voice level to hide my irritation. I literally have to send this email and shove off.

"I think they delivered this to the wrong room," she answered, her voice playful as she held out her hand. "This is your new I.D. I think the guy is pretty damn tired, he just kicked it under the door!" The I.D. Didn't really look any different that mine, other than the words Project P.E.G.A.S.U.S. written above the horrible picture of me. I never take good photos.

"Thanks," I murmured, stepping backwards to close the door. Before I had the chance, she stuck her pale white hand out.

"My name's Katherine, but everyone calls me Kat," she added with a full grin. Pressing my lips together, I forced a smile and shook her hand. "I guess we're neighbors. You just moved in? How're you likin' everything?" Her Southern accent made this situation even more amusing.

I shrugged noncommittally. "Small, but I'll manage. Um...I mean, I don't have a choice, do I?"

"Right, right," she agreed with a quiet laugh. "Well, I'll leave you be, we all gotta sleep, right?" She winked at me and then slid over to her open door, closing it gently.

I smiled to myself as I closed the door. "S.H.I.E.L.D. has no age restrictions? Interesting. I should have gotten involved in this organization earlier." I set the I.D. on the wooden dresser.

Eh, maybe not, I thought, settling down to write my apologetic email. This is already bad enough. I did enjoy my work at S.H.I.E.L.D. for the most part: I got to work with computers, which is what I do best. I helped to stop threats against the human race, and I got paid a substantial amount of money for doing it.

I just wish that S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn't tearing my family apart.